Anne Carson: from Grief Lessons: Four Plays

 Poems  Tagged with: , ,
Feb 282013
 

“Come here, let me share a bit of wisdom with you.
Have you given much thought to our mortal condition?
Probably not. Why would you? Well, listen.
All mortals owe a debt to death.
There’s no one alive
who can say if he will be tomorrow.
Our fate moves invisibly! A mystery.
No one can teach it, no one can grasp it.
Accept this! Cheer up! Have a drink!
But don’t forget Aphrodite–that’s one sweet goddess.
You can let the rest go. Am I making sense?
I think so. How about a drink.
Put on a garland. I’m sure
the happy splash of wine will cure your mood.
We’re all mortal you know. Think mortal.
Because my theory is, there’s no such thing as life,
it’s just catastrophe.”

T. S. Eliot: I rejoice that things are as they are…

 Poems  Tagged with: ,
Feb 132013
 

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

from Ash Wednesday

Philodemus: a blason anatomique epigram

 Poems  Tagged with:
Feb 052013
 

O foot, O leg, O (I’m done for) those thighs, O buttocks, O bush, O flanks,

O shoulders, O breasts, O delicate neck, O hands, O (madness!)those eyes,

O wickedly skillful walk, O fabulous kisses, O (slay me!) her speech.

-From The epigrams of Philodemos, translation and and commentary by David Sider.

Catullus 42: “Come here, nasty words…”

 Poems  Tagged with:
Jan 252013
 

Come here, nasty words, so many I can hardly
tell where you all came from.
That ugly slut thinks I’m a joke
and refuses to give us back
the poems, can you believe this shit?
Lets hunt her down , and demand them back!
Who is she, you ask? That one, who you see
strutting around, with ugly clown lips,
laughing like a pesky French poodle.
Surround her, ask for them again!
“Rotten slut, give my poems back!
Give ’em back, rotten slut, the poems!”
Doesn’t give a shit? Oh, crap. Whorehouse.
or if anything’s worse, you’re it.
But I’ve not had enough thinking about this.
If nothing else, lets make that
pinched bitch turn red-faced.
All together shout, once more, louder:
“Rotten slut, give my poems back!
Give ’em back, rotten slut, the poems!”
But nothing helps, nothing moves her.
A change in your methods is cool,
if you can get anything more done.
“Sweet thing, give my poems back!”

Translation by Richard Bullington